The Other Holmes Brother
by Connie Scott
Summary: Sherrington. For a long time this name was only known to be Conan Doyle's first choice of surname for our favourite Consulting Detective. Turns out the Holmes family is not only composed of two brothers. Before the Ice Man and the Virgin came the Ghost. How will Sherlock figure out the mystery of his unknown brother? Is Mycroft responsible for "what happened to the other one"?


« Mr Watson, can I ask you something? »

"Sure, yes, go ahead."

"Have you ever heard of the Ghost?"

"The ghost? What ghost?"

"Well, there is the Ice Man. The Virgin. And the Ghost."

Mr Watson paused and let the newspaper he was holding rest on the armchair.

"A third brother?"

I nodded.

"I thought you deserve to know why a complete stranger has been living in your living room for several days."

"I'm used to far stranger with Sherlock, you know."

"Would you like to know?"

"Yes, please."

"In Italia and France mafias are old stories in people's minds, but the reality is there, hidden in the mountains of Southern France and Corsica, a French island near Italy. The matter of the Corsican mafia has become a joke in France, but some secret bombing organisations are still striking; the government only hides it the best it can. The mountains are the perfect shelter where neither the French nor Italian polices ever control anything. They meticulously ignore the area. But what happens there is hardly believable for developed societies such as ours, yet I got caught in the eye of this blackmail storm. Or at least my family has, and it took me years to manage to escape via a ferry boat to the South of France. I arrived in Marseille and soon deduced the black businesses –as we call them- were just as numerous if not more than in Corsica.

Helped by an old woman who accepted to tell the train controllers I was her granddaughter, I managed to reach Paris in a few days. I knew when I arrived in the capital that some Mafiosi were looking for me, and when I saw Mr Sherlock on the Pont des Arts, I understood I still had a chance to disappear from their files. I recognised Mr Holmes because he looks very much like Sherrington."

"Sherrington, is that the brother's name?"

"Sherrington Hope Michael Holmes, yes."

"Was he also part of the mafia?"

"He got trapped, like most of us."

"But wait, how comes you used the nicknames Moriarty gave the Holmes?"

"Moriarty? Who…"

I was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening downstairs and the recognisable steps of Mr Holmes. I quickly turned to the doctor.

"I haven't told Mr Holmes yet, I don't think he is even aware of Sherrington…"

"You mean Sherlock doesn't know he has a brother other than Mycroft?"

I bit my lip.

"But Mycroft?" Mr Watson continued. "Does he know?"

"Oh yes he does."

The sudden appearance of Mr Holmes stopped me from explaining further details to the confused doctor who got back straight in his armchair as if nothing had happened. This last's flatmate appeared wearing what was left of a black suit.

"Damn it Sherlock, you're really trying to kill our poor Mrs Hudson with all this mess." Mr Watson exclaimed, looking more amused than actually upset.

"Traffic issues. Might need a bath."

"If you're expecting me to get it ready for you, forget about it, I promised Mrs Hudson I'd pick her up at the station." The short man said before addressing me a polite smile and promptly leaving the room.

"Do you need help with that?" I asked as the doctor was walking down the stairs.

"Help with what?"

"Your hand. Mr Watson did not see the cut, but it looks quite bad."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Well" he began. "I guess a little disinfectant wouldn't be a bother."

I smiled a little and went to the cupboard the doctor had showed me and where he was still keeping the pharmaceutical needs. I came back to the main room and joined the mud-covered man next to the armchair he was causally sat on. I waited for him to show me his hand and wrapped it in the towel I had previously covered in disinfectant. The cut was bad but hopefully not deep enough to leave a life-lasting scar. Nevertheless he loudly breathed in when the liquid got in contact with the wound, making me instantly apologise. His jaw contracted, he looked up at me.

"Have you told John?"

"Told him what?"

"Why you're here."

"I started."

He paused, looking back at my hands firmly holding the towel around his.

"He's a lovely man" I said as the detective still was reading some invisible information on my skin.

"Hmm."

"But I cannot tell him before telling you everything you need to know, can I?"

"Depends on whom you feel the most comfortable with I guess." He looked at me. "Why are you laughing?"

"I certainly feel very comfortable with Mr Watson but you remind me very much of someone I held dear."

"Do I?"

His inquiring polar blue gaze was still trying to figure out what he had been trying to understand since the day we had met.

"I know you do not want me to tell you everything right away, Mr Holmes, but if I could give you a piece of advice I would tell you to deduce more things about your own self." A polite smile still on my face, I added: "But to help you there is someone I need to meet. Someone who had done something I will never forgive. Mycroft Holmes."

"Nothing about what Mycroft does is forgivable." He answered as I took the cold towel off his pale skin.


End file.
